


Rosebud Fight Club

by ceyla



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk/Pastel AU, Coming Out, Davy Hate Club, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Sharing a Room, Stars, University, mild homophobia, mild violence, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceyla/pseuds/ceyla
Summary: University Punk/Pastel (sort of) AU ,in which Baz and Simon are opposed on account of Simon being the upstart-headmaster’s son, and Baz’s mother the once leader of the school.Baz thinks he knows Simon Snow. But how much does he really know about the golden Chosen One? What would Watford's emblem be like if he were removed from the overwhelming presence of his father?





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this story all came from an image of Simon with a nose ring and how weak it would make Baz.

Baz swings into their dorm the day before school starts, with the usual amount of sneer and swagger. He knows the drill. It’s the same, every time. Hasn’t changed. Snow will be thin, ragged at the edges. His shoulders will be caved inwards slightly, and he’ll be wearing the pressed shirts that seem to fit so awkwardly upon his shoulders. His political books will be sprawled across the desk, and he’ll be grumbling about having to deal with the ex-headmistresses’ son yet again. Baz will mock Snow for his pathetic attempts to follow in the footsteps of his adoptive father; will laugh as he calls up images of Snow bent over his desk, receiving one failed assignment after another, and try not to think about the alternative – naked, moonlit chest, golden curls, ordinary blue eyes.  
  
The reality however, is far different. Baz sweeps over to his bed, eyeing Snow’s messier side. _He’s already here_ , he thought. ( _Good_.) “Well hello, Snow,” he sneers. “It’s so disappointing to see you again.” 

There’s a clatter from the bathroom, and then Snow is suddenly leaning against the door, and – _holy fuck_. Baz suddenly finds himself unable to articulate thought, let alone speak. His brain has imploded. Across the room, Snow raises an eyebrow. “Problem, Baz?” He asks, moving towards his bed. The sunlight catches upon the silver ring now pierced into his nose, slides past his eyes which are now curved upwards slightly with perfect eyeliner. His eyes are bluer than Baz ever thought possible. He’s wearing a patched blue denim jacket, with a large rainbow embroidered into the shoulder. As he collapses onto his bed, Baz catches roses winding across his shoulder blades. He’s wearing impossibly tight black jeans, feet shoved into a pair of scuffed docs. If Baz weren’t made of marble, he might whimper. As it is, he schools his face into a sneer. “Well Snow, I am impressed. Has it finally caught up to you that you’re not Watford’s _Chosen One_?”

Snow shrugs. “Pretty much.” His eyes are alight with poorly-concealed laughter, as if he somehow knows more than Baz. Baz finds he hates the feeling. “Really, Snow. And how will your beloved father take this news?”  
At this, Simon’s expression darkens. “His opinion isn’t relevant.”  
Baz laughs. “Well this _is_ news.” He pauses for a moment, before a thought occurs to him. “I’m looking forward to Mr. Hardwood’s reaction when it comes to your speech to the faculty.”  
Simon shifts up onto his elbows, running a hand through his curls. “Me too.” He shrugs. “Pity I won’t be doing it this year then, isn’t it?”  
Baz is thoroughly confused by this point. “What on earth are you talking about, Snow?”  
“I switched majors. It’s astrophysics now.”  
Baz snorts. “Bullshit. You do know you need to pass the entry levels, right?”  
Simon smirks. “Oh, but Bazzy. I _did_. Passed with flying colours, in fact.”  
Baz will never tell anyone in a million years that Snow calling him Bazzy, sprawled out on his bed like that, is a major turn on. 

* * *

 

The entire school is as astounded by Snow as Baz when the semester begins in full. Much to Baz’s irritation, it only serves to enhance Snow’s godlike reputation, and the number of idiotic girls pestering _him_ for Snow’s number becomes ridiculous. As if he has Snow’s number. ( _You wish_ ).  
Amazingly, Snow’s golden girlfriend is unfazed by this sudden transition.

“It’s not fair Baz,” Dev whines one lunchtime, as they’re studying outside. He’s staring across the courtyard to where Snow is sitting with Bunce and Agatha. The trio are studying in the sunlight, laughing. “I spent so much money last year on fancy shirts. Agatha said she’d never look at a guy twice if he wasn’t dressed posh – and now Snow’s turned into some sort of punk, and she doesn’t even lose an eyelash?”

Baz lifts his head to stare across at Snow, sprawled out across the grass. He’s feeling especially pathetic today, and his chest aches with longing. As he watches, Agatha leans in towards Snow, resting her head upon his shoulder. Beside him, Dev sighs. Baz shakes his head. “You can do much better, Devon.”  
Dev just grunts. “She _is_ the better, Baz.”  

It’s dusk when Simon strides into their room, smiling. Baz is reading on his bed, and he reflects that he has never seen Snow so happy and carefree. Today, the boy is wearing yet another pair of sinfully tight jeans, and a bright yellow t-shirt, the denim jacket slung over one shoulder. He watches silently as Simon dumps his bag of books on his bed, and breezes into the bathroom. The moment the shower starts up, Baz has slipped across the room, to perch upon Snow’s bed. It smells like cinnamon and apples here, and Baz allows himself a moment to simply breathe, because yes, he really is that weak. He imagines curling between these sheets, arms wrapped around a searing golden torso. Snow would be so warm, and his tawny curls would brush against Baz’s chin…

There’s a crash from the bathroom, and Baz draws himself to his goal. He’s been curiously frustrated, ever since Simon told him he’d switched majors. How was it even possible?  
Baz rifles through Snow’s bag, tugging out a battered exercise book. It’s filled with problems, equations, and complicated summaries that Baz struggles to make sense of. Amazingly, it is all in Snow’s atrocious handwriting, and what’s more, almost every problem has a sharp red tick, underscored by a large **98%.** The shower cuts off, and Baz hurriedly returns to his bed. How in Merlin’s name had Snow become so…so _smart_? 

Simon strolls out of the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of low slung track pants, towel looped around his neck. Water droplets are slowly sliding down his jaw, dripping onto his chest. _Merlin and Morgana_ , Baz thinks. His mouth has turned uncomfortably dry. Simon stumbles towards his desk, snatching up the long sleeved top resting there, and tugs it on. He begins pulling out books, tucking a pencil between his teeth. The sight makes Baz’s stomach curl with desire, and the sensation is enough to open his idiotic mouth.  
“I’m surprised, Snow. What kind of boyfriend are you, if you spend your Friday nights in your room?”  
Once upon a time, this would have made Simon crackle and growl. He would have stuttered, and slapped Baz with a pathetic retort. Now however, he just twists in his chair to stare at Baz in confusion. “What are you talking about?”  
Baz rolls his eyes. “Who do you think, Snow?”  
At Simon’s blank look, Baz snarls. “Crowley Snow, how stupid can you get? Your golden girlfriend – Agatha.”  
Simon stares at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing. Then incredibly, he’s laughing, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Agatha and I – we haven’t been dating since last year, Baz. We’re just friends.” Baz frowns, but Snow is already turning back to his work, still chuckling. Baz is thoroughly confused by this punk Simon. 

* * *

 

Inevitably however, the past begins to catch up with Simon Snow. Baz is tucked underneath a tree one lunchtime, when a voice cracks through the crowded courtyard. “Mr. Snow!” It’s Watford’s glittering reformer of a headmaster, Davy Mage – Snow’s prized father. He’s stomping across the length of the courtyard, face severe. The student body stiffens, and collapses into silence. The air is stiff, and the early afternoon sun seems to be stretched ragged across the earth.

 “Simon!”  
Snow strides into view. He looks particularly threatening today; his clothes are spun midnight, his eyeliner knife sharp. He throws his father a glance over his shoulder, and Baz watches closely. There’s pure hatred there, and something else – something deep and impenetrable. Baz has never seen Snow grace his father with such a look; usually there is only adoration and incessant pleading, begging for love. Baz has always found it pathetic, and ignorant – the ease with which Snow ignored the atrocities of his father always astounded him. 

“ _Salisbury_!” The Mage snarls, and Simon suddenly stumbles to a halt, several metres away from Baz. His clenched fists are shaking, and – there’s a _tear_ , slipping down his cheek. The name Salisbury seems familiar to Baz somehow, though he can’t remember why.  
Davy has caught up to Snow now, and his expression is triumphant. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Simon shifts slightly. “You know very bloody well what I’m doing, _sir_. How” – he pauses for a moment to glance around – “how _dare_ you say that name here. You have no right, you bastard!”  
Davy smirks. “I have every right, son. Now be a good boy, and come along with me to my office, like I asked.”  
“I’ll do no such thing.” Simon snarls. “What can you do to me? One wrong move, and I’ll tell them _everything_.”  
The Mage’s face crumples with fear. “Y-you promised –”  
“Only if you kept your end.” Snow takes a step back. “Goodbye, asshole.” These last words are projected loud enough for the collected body to hear. The silence is concrete now, thick and oppressive.  
“Mr. Snow!”  
Simon is striding away now; at his father’s shaky cry, he throws him the finger over his shoulder. All at once, the wave breaks, and the courtyard is filled with awed gossiping. Baz watches as Watford’s golden boy slopes off into the distance, shoulders stiff.

* * *

 

When Baz slips tiredly into their room that evening, Snow is propped up on his bed, painting his nails buttercup yellow. His face is tightened and thinning; in the dim light, it looks as though it is wavering at the edges. Simon’s hair is pushed haphazardly back from his forehead, and as he tilts his head to examine one perfectly polished hand, his nose ring winks at Baz. The entire spectacle is too much, and Baz finds he has to sit down hurriedly on his bed. Snow is unfairly attractive at the best of times, but tonight he is far too fucking appealing. Baz wants to slope across the room, and shove Simon backwards into the sheets. He wants to lick a path up his neck, following the line of moles. He wants Simon to writhe beneath him, moaning. He wants to slide a hand up Snow’s thigh, and know that his touch is power. He wants to press kisses around that infernal nose ring, make Simon blush prettily and smile up at him with love. Baz wants a lot of things, but he knows better than to hope for them.

Simon glances up suddenly, and for a moment the two boys find themselves trapped in a staring contest. Baz shivers, and breaks contact. “Take a picture, Snow. It’ll last longer.”  
Simon doesn’t snap and growl like the old Simon would have. Instead, he simply smiles. “Hey, Baz.” His voice is sly.  
“What?” Baz makes sure to sneer more than usual.  
“Can you come over here?”  
“So you can give me a black eye? No thanks.”  
“Please, Baz. I want to paint your nails!”  
Baz struggles to keep his face still. “Don’t be ridiculous, Snow. I’m not that tacky.”  
“ _Please_ , Bazzy? 

The name is like kryptonite, and Baz finds himself shuffling across the room to perch gingerly on the edge of Simon’s bed. “I’d prefer it if you refrained from calling me that,” he sniffs. ( _Liar_ ).  
“What, Bazzy?”  
Baz feels his stomach flare with desire. Why is he so pathetically turned on by this? Simon grins evilly. “Baz, Baz, Bazzy, Bazzy, _Baz_.”  
“Just fucking get on with it, and paint my bloody nails Snow.” Baz doesn’t know how much more he can take of this. Since when did Snow become so open, and devious? Since when were they so friendly with one another?

Simon is rifling through a large bag, and when he turns back to Baz, his eyes are wide. “Oh my god Baz, can I pretty please do your whole face?”  
His eyes are wide with excitement. Baz jerks backwards in alarm. “What in Merlin’s – no, Snow.”  
Simon beams. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

 

It could be several hours later, or several days, for all Baz knows, when Simon finally leans back with wide eyes. “Y-you’re done, Baz.” His voice is soft, and Baz is uncomfortably aware of how close they are. He stands hurriedly, and stumbles over to the mirror between their wardrobes. He isn’t prepared for the sight. 

His eyes are flicked upwards in the perfect cat’s-eye, and his lashes have been subtly lengthened with mascara. His eyelids are shaded and smudged; his eyebrows have never looked so perfect. Glancing down at his nails, Baz admires the deep, oxblood shade that glows against his pale skin. His lips are lined and painted a red that makes him seem sultry and seductive. _Holy fuck_.  
Baz turns slowly back to face Simon. “I’m impressed, Snow.”  
Simon is staring at him in shock. “T-thanks, Baz.” 

Baz approaches the bed again, resumes his cross-legged spot at the end, and levels Simon with a glare. “Why are you doing this? I find it hard to believe there isn’t some ulterior motive.”  
Simon bites his lip, and fixes his gaze on his lap, fiddling with a tube of eyeliner. “I-I suppose I should explain.” Baz remains silent, waiting. When Simon speaks again, his voice is shaky. “I want to start over, Baz. I’m tired of being enemies. The holidays were…enlightening for me, to say the least. I discovered that my father really wasn’t the person I always thought he was; I saw how idiotically blind I’d been. I’ve never hated myself more, than when I realised how I’d _agreed_ with him, when he hurt your family. I-I’m so sorry, Baz, for the way I’ve treated you. It, it was inexcusable, and I would do anything I can to make it better.” Simon breaks off hurriedly, bowing his head.  
  
Baz was expecting, at the very least, some half-assed plan that made little sense. His heart is racing. Never, not once in a million years, had he expected Simon Snow to show such humility. “Well, Snow. That was certainly very… _enlightening_.”  
Simon flinches. Baz knows he is waiting to be verbally lacerated. “And I agree. I think it’s time we put the past behind us.”  
Simon’s head snaps up, eyes bright. “Baz,” he breathes.  
“I’m sorry too, Snow.”  
Simon’s face breaks into an impossibly soft smile. “Please. Call me Simon.”

 

Baz lays in bed that night, long after Simon has gone to sleep, and remembers the way the boy’s hands had drifted across his skin. He’s never had a boy touch his lips before, never had someone caress his face like that – even if it was under the pretence of applying makeup. Baz rolls onto his side, and allows his eyes to drift across the moonlit wonder that is Simon Snow; chest glowing, arms curled high up on the pillowcase amongst the tangled curls.

He lifts a hand to his face, remembers the way Simon had traced his jaw with a hand, brushed against his cheekbone. He circles his lips with a finger, and remembers the way Simon had dabbed at them lightly with his coarse fingers. It is midnight, and Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the Third has never been more hopelessly in love with his roommate.


	2. Part 2

Baz finds that being friends with Simon Snow is akin to torture. Though it is better in some ways – being able to admire Simon more often for one – Baz is finding it increasingly difficult to not take Snow by the back of the neck and meet him with his mouth.

Penny and Agatha are unfazed by the sudden addition to their group; when Simon drags him up to the two girls in the corridor one day, Penny simply adjusts her glasses, whilst Agatha flicks her hair over one shoulder. Baz catches them sharing heavily-coded glances with one another when they think he isn’t looking, and can’t help but wonder what Snow told them about him. Simon is, of course, blessedly oblivious. For someone who fast tracked his way through the first two years of astrophysics, the boy can be extremely obtuse. He never seems to realise that his touch alone is enough to turn Baz into a sappy, blushing mess.

 

“Baz, I’m so hungry. Can we go get scones already?” Simon whines, curling his head onto Baz’s shoulder. They’re in the library, and Simon has spent the past few hours complaining, in between frenzied calculations.  
“Not yet, Snow. I need to finish this paper.” Baz wills himself not to blush, even as Simon sighs and presses deeper into his side. “Please, Bazzy?”  
At this, Baz can’t help the flush of colour spreading over his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Across the table, Penny glances up sharply, smirking. Baz does his best to glare, but it is impossible when the human version of a limpet is sliding one hand across his stomach. With a sigh of frustration, Baz throws down his pen. “Alright! Let’s go get your bloody scones, you insufferable child.”  
Simon jumps up with a cry that earns their table several death stares. As Baz turns to follow, Agatha raises an immaculate eyebrow, grinning. “Have fun, _Bazzy_.”  
Baz throws them a hateful glare, before following after Snow. ( _So weak for him_ ).

“I don’t know how you do it,” Simon says quietly, as they’re walking towards Ebb’s café. The lawns are crowded with students, making the most of the remaining sun. Already, the leaves are beginning to fade, and the sky seems a little paler.  
“Do what?” Baz asks.  
“Be what your family wants you to be. Do so well at it. Do you actually like economics, Baz?”  
Baz curses Simon for being so bloody perceptive. “I don’t,” he says bluntly.  
“You’re so – you what?”  
“I don’t like economics, Simon.” Baz slows a little, allows Simon to fall in step with him. “I’m like you were – I only do it because it’s what my family expects of me.”  
Simon stops walking with a jerk. His face is pinched and drawn. “I’m sorry, Baz.”  
Baz shakes his head angrily. “Don’t be, Snow. It’s my own choice, is it not?”  
Simon smiles sadly. “I wish it were as simple as that.”

They’ve stopped outside the café. Simon buys six scones, insisting they get them dine in. In resignation, Baz buys a Pumpkin Mocha Breve. Simon finds this to be abhorrent, and pronounces that Baz has severely damaged their friendship. Baz responds by eating a scone, which earns him a pouted glare.

“What is it?” Simon asks eventually.  
Baz stares at him in exasperation. “I’m going to need a little more context than that, Snow.”  
“I mean, what is it you really want to be doing?”  
Baz looks away, schooling his face into an impenetrable mask. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”  
Simon shakes his head, and suddenly, Baz finds his hand being tugged into Simon’s. The boy’s hand is warm, and when Baz attempts to extricate his hand, the other joins in holding him captive.  
 “That’s bullshit, Baz. Tell me.” Simon’s voice is soft.  
Baz glares down at his lap, but Simon’s hands don’t budge. “Fine,” he snaps. “I want to be a violinist, okay?”  
Thankfully, Simon relinquishes his hand at this. “Wow Baz, that’s so cool. I bet you’d be really good at it!”  
Baz shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, either way. My family – my _father_ – would never stand for it.”  
Simon shrugs. “You might be surprised, if you talked to him.”  
“Like you did to yours?”  
Simon’s face falls. “Not like me, Baz.”  
Baz frowns; he still doesn’t understand the story, can’t make sense of how ‘Simon Snow’ became Simon Snow, punk extraordinaire. “What do you mean?”  
Simon is shoving the last scone into his mouth, shaking his head furiously. “Can’t Baz,” he mumbles, spraying scone crumbs everywhere.  
Baz sighs, and lets the subject drop.

* * *

As they walk back towards the library, Simon is unnaturally quiet. Baz is distracted, thinking about the possibility of an art degree, imagining the way he would orchestrate Simon in this moment; cross-sawed curls, lines following the curve of his golden neck. Perhaps he would – “Hey, faggot!”  
The cry is sharp, abrasive, and Baz feels dread splinter through his stomach.  
Three boys are standing behind them in a shaded alley; Baz recognises them to be several starry-eyed followers of Snow’s from last year, who took to ‘defending’ their hero’s honour in dusty corners.  
The boys advance slowly, and Ringo, their leader, raises one perfectly curled fist. “Heard you’ve been pretending to hang out with the Chosen One,” he sneers. “Whatever you’re planning to do to him, it won’t work. We’re one step ahead, _fag_.” He’s toe to toe with Baz now. “What’d you have to do to convince him? I bet you spread your legs, didn’t you, slut –”

“ _Hey_!”

Ringo jumps back with a start, and Baz turns to find Simon standing behind him, face contorted with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He snarls, shoving Baz sideways.  
Ringo can only gape in horror. “S-Simon, I didn’t realise –”  
“What kind of pathetic, snivelling worm is still stuck in fucking highschool? I’m not your Chosen One, and Baz isn’t a slut.”  
At this, Ringo finds his voice. “He’s tricking you! Can’t you see it? The faggot’s a whore, his legs are never –”  
Ringo cuts off with a cry, as Simon’s ringed fist drives into his stomach. The boys behind him stumble backwards in shock, shouting apologies. Ringo gapes up at Simon in betrayal, and Baz finds that his blood is thrumming with adrenaline. The moment of satisfaction doesn’t last however; Ringo’s face twists, and suddenly, Simon is on the ground.

“Simon!” Baz cries, but it seems he isn’t needed. In one swift movement, Simon has flicked Ringo off, and is on his feet, driving a booted foot into the boy’s ribs. There is a howl of pain, but Simon is already marching towards Baz, breathing hard. “Did he hurt you?” He gasps.  
Baz shakes his head quickly, and allows himself to be pulled back to the main road. Simon is slightly terrifying like this, all dark power in denim and leather. (He won’t admit that it is also unnervingly sexy).

* * *

_Simon is strolling past the library, relieved to be done with classes for the day, when a hand flies out, and drags him behind a bush. He blinks into the darkness, momentarily confused, when a fist punches into his stomach._

_“I’m really disappointed in you, Simon,” the voice above him drawls, and then there is a hand in his curls, tugging him upwards. “Your father said you were easy, but I didn’t think it would be_ this _simple.”_

 _Simon feels his stomach drop. Of course it was. There had been something odd about that day in the alleyway, and now it all makes sense. Who else could be so underhanded, if not his father?_  
_“Now,” Ringo sneers, and digs his nails into Simon’s scalp. “You’re going to listen to what I have to say.”_

_***_

“Basilton, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Baz’s father leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. Baz knows this look. It is the look that his father often tries to create with him; he supposes it is his attempt at love.

Baz straightens slightly. “Father. I have been thinking about my future, and I think it’s time I told you the truth.”  
Malcolm’s lips thin, but he remains silent. The office air is stale and cold; Baz shifts slightly in his leather armchair, and the sound echoes awkwardly. He takes a deep breath to regain his composure. “I want to switch majors.”  
Malcolm laughs, shocked. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Basilton. Are you feeling quite well?”  
Baz has never wanted to scream so badly. “ _No_ , father we are not going to do this. You don’t get to pretend I don’t exist; you are not allowed to sit there and create your perfect fucking son. This is who you’ve got, and I know it’s fucking hard to look at me when I look so much like her –”  
“Don’t you dare speak of her like that!”  
“– not to mention, I’m _gay_ , or that I’m in love with –” Baz cuts himself off sharply, heart racing. His father is staring at him in horror. He looks as though he’s aged several decades in the space of a few harsh sentences.

“What I want, father, is to switch majors. I want to be a violinist, I don’t want to sit at a desk all day, surrounded by numbers, and god-awful people. I want to be _me_ , father. Don’t – don’t you think mother would have wanted that? For me to be happy?”

The office is torturously still for several, tense seconds, and then Malcolm is rising out of his chair, face returned to its former mask. “I think it would be best if you left now Basilton. In return, I will continue to fund your economics education at Watford, and you – you will never talk to me of this violin garbage again. You will do as I say, or I will cut you off.” His father pauses, and turns to gaze out the window, across the Thames. His final words are flung over his shoulder. “And don’t come home for mid-term break. You’re not welcome.”

Baz stumbles out of his father’s office, chest roiling with acid. Barely ten minutes have passed – mere minutes for his dreams to become splintered match sticks. As Baz tears down the corridor, he is faintly aware of the tears falling steadily down his cheeks, and the acrid sting of self-hatred burning a path down his throat.

***

 _Simon says nothing. He could easily have this idiot on the ground in a matter of seconds, but he needs to know what his father wants._  
_“Mr. Mage has been watching your roommate for quite some time now, and he really isn’t comfortable with the level of association you have with him.”_

 _At this, Simon snorts, which earns him a hard slap, cracking his head sideways into the brick wall._  
_“Mr. Grimm-Pitch has an unsavoury background, and Mr. Mage thinks that he may be exerting this influence on you. Now, I think we can both say that Mr. Mage is a man who only cares for the best – he brought you up singlehandedly after your mother abandoned you at that nasty care home – and he’s really worried of the impact Basil may be having upon your future.”_  
_Simon’s had enough. “What’s it to you?” he snarls._  
_In the dim light, Simon sees Ringo’s face curl into a leer. “Mr. Mage is a very gracious and benevolent leader, who awards where it is due.”_  
_A hand falls onto Simon’s inner thigh, and begins to slide upwards. Ringo leans in to mouth at Simon’s ear. “You know, I really like this punk getup. I think maybe we’ll have to keep it for private enjoyment.”_

_Simon enjoys making mincemeat of Ringo. When the boy has finally stopped trying to make a witty comeback, Simon bends down to whisper in his ear. “Tell my father that a Salisbury fights back.” He shoulders his way out of the bushes, leaving Ringo groaning in the dirt. Simon’s good mood is entirely ruined; he storms towards his room, lungs scratching for the burn of cigarette smoke._

* * *

It is only when he’s three dormitory blocks away from his room, that Baz becomes aware of the students staring at him strangely. He lifts his head, and makes eye contact with one – a girl with dark hair looped low upon her head. She steps forward hesitantly, and lays a hand on Baz’s arm. “S-sorry to bother you Basil, but how is Simon?”  
Baz throws her hand off angrily. “I wouldn’t know,” he sneers.

The girl blushes, but doesn’t step back. “It’s just – we heard he’d got into a fight with some second year, and Ramone said she saw him walking this way, with this really awful limp, and blood all over his face, and we were all just hoping he was okay?”

“He fucking _what_?”  
Baz is already striding away before the girl can reply, tugging his phone out of his jacket. Simon doesn’t pick up on the first call, or the tenth. Baz’s increasingly angry and expletive-loaded texts go unread, and by the time he reaches the foyer of their block, Baz is half deeply afraid, and half ready to punch the absolute fucker of an idiot in the face.

* * *

Baz slams their door open to a pitch-black room. He falters, heart pounding. As his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he sweeps them over the moonlit floor, the shadowed walls – and catches on a glowing red circle, floating in the dimness above Simon’s bed. Baz stumbles towards Simon, lowering himself cautiously onto the bed. The cigarette tip flares in the shadowy light of the room, followed by the soft exhale of smoke. Baz can smell it almost instantly, though he refrains from telling Snow how much he hates it.

Simon says nothing, as Baz slides back to rest against the wall beside him. For several long, tense seconds, there is simply the catch of Simon’s cigarette, as he inhales. Finally, Baz speaks. “Simon…I know about the fight. What happened?”  
Simon flicks ash out the opened window, muttering, “It doesn’t fucking matter, Baz.”  
Baz clenches his jaw. “Of course it fucking matters, Snow.”  
Simon laughs, coldly. “Snow, huh? Are we back to that already?”  
Baz feels as though his stomach has turned to stone. “I-I don’t understand, Si –”  
Simon snorts. “You’d better keep away, Baz. I’m a murderer.”

Baz’s patience is holding on by a few, very thin strands. “Look, Simon – just tell me what the bloody hell is going on, alright? I care about you, you stupid idiot.”

Simon turns sharply, and lobs his cigarette out the window. He remains frozen there, half twisted away from Baz. The room is silent for a few moments. Simon doesn’t move. Baz sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Simon,” he begins, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It is the last chink in his armour.

Simon turns abruptly, and Baz has half a moment to see the tears glinting in the moonlight, before the boy buries his face in Baz’s stomach, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, shoulders heaving as he sobs. Baz tries to ignore the sudden flush of warmth through his chest, as he lifts a hand to stroke through Simon’s curls. “Si, please just tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers.

Simon lets out a noise that may have been a half-sentence, or a growl. It’s hard to tell. Baz shakes his shoulder gently. “Si, I can’t hear you with your face in my stomach.”  
Simon huffs at this, and rolls onto his back, so that he is blinking up at Baz in the pale moonlight, head nestled in his lap. His face is shadowed, and haggard. “I think it’s time I told you about my summer.”

Baz stares back quietly, waiting.

Simon’s eyes drift towards the window, and he curls several fingers around Baz’s wrist. “It-it began with a phone call actually. I was going to go out and buy some groceries, when I heard _him_. My – my father.” Simon’s voice is laced with a hatred so powerful, Baz begins to feel the first wavers of fear.

“He’s my father, Baz.”

Baz lets out a small snort at this. “Of course he is, Simon. How many times have I heard you growl it?”  
Simon’s face shifts into a scowl. “No, Baz. I mean – he _is_ my father. Do I need to spell it out for you?”  
Baz feels something within him fall away. “ _Oh_ ,” he whispers.

“My mother went to school here, did you know? She was best friends with your mum. And Penny’s, actually.”  
Baz sucks in a breath, but finds he has no words in him to respond. For a moment, there is only the quiet softness of the night curling around them.

“Only, she fell madly in love with _him_. He wanted what she had – money, connections, charisma. And – well, we all know my dad. What he wants, he gets. Mum was so blindly in love with him, she didn’t realise what he’d done until it was too late.” Simon breaks off with a snarled sob, and Baz resumes stroking a hand through his curls.

“I hate myself for all the things I said about your family, for believing in what my father said. I was the perfect little puppet. Just like he planned. He – he fucking planned everything. But he forgot Baz, I think, how powerful love can be. She discovered his files one day, and he came home to her knowing everything. She knew that he’d tricked your mum, and cost her her job. She knew everything, Baz.”

Simon sits up roughly, and slumps against the window, away from Baz. His face is anguished. “They had a legendary fight, that night. She was going to leave him, make a new life for us, and do all she could to help your family – only, only she went into premature labour.” Simon buries his face in his hands. “I killed her, Baz. She died bringing me into this world.”

Baz makes a noise of disagreement, and Simon shakes his head violently. “No. Please, Baz. I don’t deserve your empathy.”  
Baz opened his mouth to argue, when he remembers something. “But how did you end up in care? It doesn’t make any sense.”

At this, Simon tilts his head back, to lean against the wall. His eyes are wide, full of mirthless laughter. “You see, even you Baz, can’t comprehend the wondrous ingenuity of Davy Mage. He had to tell everyone my mother had vanished in the night – it was the only explanation he could give. But he was ruined. Who would want a man who couldn’t even keep his own wife?” Simon’s voice is bitter.  
“He left me on the steps of the local care home, the very same night she died. Lucy wasn’t a good person any more, you see? She’d stolen Davy’s son. And when he _rescued_ me, at age 15 – well, no one could get enough.” Simon begins to laugh, and the sound is horrible; dry-boned and mocking. “I went through hell for that bastard – and I came out a golden beacon of my mother’s blood.”

Simon’s eyes blink closed. His face is brushed with shadows, so Baz can’t be sure where Simon ends and the gloom begins. Baz feels searing rage for a man that had hurt Simon so efficiently; feels cold horror at the callousness that is Davy Mage.

“Simon,” he begins, and his voice could be the flight of an owl, it is so soft. “That man is a despicable, absolute vile smear of a human being. He might be your father, but that doesn’t mean _you_ are him. You are so much,” Baz breaks off with a cough, finding his throat suddenly cotton-wooled with emotion.

“You are so much better than he could ever be. And I’m not just saying this as a half-hearted attempt to make you feel better. I mean it, Si – I, I _know_ it to be true. My own father thinks being gay is a sin, something that can be fixed through harsh education, but I’m gay, and I know it isn’t true. I don’t dole out affection like golden grains of rice, I don’t believe in making money over fostering compassion – I’m not my father, Simon, and neither are you.” Baz feels as though he has just run a marathon. How long, he wonders, have these been words nestled in his chest, waiting? He feels as though his insides have been dusted with moonlight and set aglow.

“Have you ever really _looked_ at yourself, Simon? Seen what an empathetic soul you are? People don’t flock to you because you’re the Chosen One, they flock to you because you care, and you care that they can feel that too. No one else would have thought to ask me what I really wanted to do. Everyone else would have assumed that I was just a carbon copy of my father. Don’t you see what you did, Simon? You believed that I was more than my father. And if I am, then so are you.”

Simon is staring at Baz in shock by the time his mouth closes abruptly. His eyes are wide, face smeared with tears, but there is a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, and Baz finds that there is no better reward.

 

The boys are interrupted from their dazed staring when Baz’s phone vibrates its way off the bed. He scrambles to pick it up, and his voice is breathless when he answers. “Hello?”

“Basil.”

Fuck. Of all the people, it has to be his father. How bloody fitting.  
“What do you want?” He snaps. He’s tired. He’s emotional. ( _Why not hug Simon, and bury your nose in his hair? What about your li-_ ) _._

On the other end of the crackled line, his father sighs. Baz can picture him sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of something particularly strong and awful in his hand. It’s where he always goes to make official calls. “I’ve been thinking…about our little talk this afternoon. Some of what you said really stuck with me, I have to say.”

“Oh, I am glad,” Baz snarls. “Have you finally realised you’re not the only person on this planet?” He’s startled when a rough, warm hand slips into his, a golden thumb stroking circles across his skin.

“I-I’m sorry, Basilton.” It sounds as though Malcolm swallowed gravel, but Baz can’t find it in him to respond. He’s too shocked.  
“Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it to be like this. I know it’s been hard, especially when you’re so unfortunately, ah, _alternative_ , but you’re right, Basilton. Your mum would have wanted you to be happy. And I do too, though I may not act like it.”  
“W-what are you saying, precisely?”

His father draws in a breath. “What I’m saying Basil, is that yes, you can do your violin degree. I’ll continue to fund your education.”

Baz can barely stumble out a “Thank you,” before the phone falls from his grip. He is vaguely aware of Simon drawing him into a hug, mumbling something into his shoulder, a hand curled against the back of his neck. They sit there for a while – whether it be mere moments or hours, Baz really couldn’t care less – until the tang of cigarette smoke draws him back.

“Don’t fucking smoke, Snow.”

* * *

Four days later, a hashtag begins to circulate on social media - _#davyhateclub_. The responses to it are immediate, and it is mere hours before it has gone viral.

_“He put my brother on the waiting list because he was worried about the reputation someone ‘of his colour’ would have…”_

 

_“I got banned from the swim team because I was ‘distracting’ to the other members.”_

 

_“He told me he wouldn’t let me into Advanced Chem bc apparently I didn’t look like I was suited to it.”_

 

_“I heard he doesn’t actually treat his son all that well.”_

_“Omg it’s totally weird, right? I always thought Simon’s story was off, somehow.”_

 

_“Why tf does he dress like a hipster Robin Hood?”_

_“_ _lmao has anyone seen how hot Simon is these days? He’s **my** chosen one.”_

_“Seriously????”_

_“Dear Mr. Mage. We fight back. -S.”_

 

Baz reads the last message several times, to make sure he isn’t imagining it. That bloody gorgeous, wilful idiot. The thread has taken over the school, and beyond; social media is akin to gasoline, in a way. Once the hordes of angry students began sharing their stories, news stations around the world picked up on it with glee. No one has seen Davy in days, and there are any number of reporters prowling the grounds each day, questioning anything that moves.

Simon has also been mysteriously absent for the past few days. He wakes up in the greyness of dawn, applies makeup rather noisily, and clatters out the door, throwing a wink over his shoulder. (Snow, as he is in almost all areas of his life, is a terribly clumsy winker). He returns late into the night, showers, and collapses into bed, with little more than a few sleepy words to Baz.

Baz stumbles into him rather suddenly on Thursday morning, walking through Hyde Park. Baz had been looking for a place to search for repertoire in peace, and stumbles upon Snow strolling with another boy. The two are smiling at one another, clearly in their own little world, and Baz’s chest suddenly feels as though it has been stuffed with ash and cinders.

He attempts to disappear into the fading greenery, but Simon spots him. His face lights up with a smile. “Baz!” He calls excitedly.

Baz walks over reluctantly, hating that this is all he’ll ever get with Snow, hating that he had so easily allowed himself to believe they could be something more. The boy standing beside Simon is devastatingly handsome, and from the way his eyes drift over Baz, Baz knows he can never compete.

“Hey, Snow,” he replies quietly, and pretends not to notice the way Simon’s face falls slightly.  
“I haven’t talked to you properly in days, Baz. You should come with me and Milo! We’re having a picnic.”

Another stab to the heart. Baz can feel his face falling into his all too familiar, implacable mask, lips curling into a sneer. He hates it, but he can’t seem to control it. He feels vulnerable, and from the curve of Milo’s lips, it is all too obvious. “I’d rather not interrupt your date,” he drawls.

Simon’s jaw drops, eyes glancing wildly from Milo to Baz. “This-this isn’t – it’s not –”  
Baz cuts across him, sharply. “I’ll leave you two to it. See you later, Snow.”

He’s gone before the idiot can attempt to call out to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Milo place a hand on Simon’s waist; the boy quiets immediately and turns to bury his face in Milo’s chest.

Baz doesn’t care where he’s going, as long as it is away from here. With every step he takes, the faster his blood swirls. His mind flashes back to every soft touch Simon has granted him over the past two months, every stare that he foolishly hoped might mean something more. He can still feel phantom fingers applying makeup across his skin, and oh, how he _wants_.

* * *

Simon wills himself not to cry, but it’s a futile attempt. “I’ve fucked up so, so bad, Milo.”  
Above him, Milo chuckles. “It certainly wasn’t very smooth, Si, but it isn’t unfixable.”  
Simon blinks up at him blearily. “It isn’t?”  
Milo smirks, running a hand down his back. “I don’t think the two of us cuddling helped very much, but yes, it can be fixed.”

Simon falls onto the grass heavily. “I’ve fucked up everything!”  
Milo sits down beside him with a good deal more grace, sighing. “Simon, Simon, Simon. Have you learned nothing? Your beloved Basil is never going to unwind until you tell him everything.” Milo rolls onto his stomach, smiling conspiratorially. “It was an unfortunate first meeting, but I’m so glad I finally met him. He’s so delectable.”

“I don’t think I have a chance anymore, Milo.”

Milo tugs Simon into a hug. “Now you’re just talking stupid. That boy looks at you like you like you hung the moon.”

* * *

Simon returns to the university in the pale golden reaches of that last good autumn afternoon, to see his father being led away by an officer. He stands by to watch them pass, hoping Davy won’t see him, but today does not seem to be his day.

“Simon!” Davy throws himself at his son, momentarily avoiding the grasp of the policeman. Simon dodges his grasp, eyes wide.

“Simon, sweetheart! Please, tell this man I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Davy looks deranged, eyes sunken into his skull, fingers clawed. For a moment, Simon feels the customary shame and self-hatred that his father inspires, before he remembers Baz’s words. This isn’t who he is.

And so, Simon Salisbury steps back, face calm. “I do not understand, sir.”  
Simon Salisbury stands to the side, and watches quietly, as Davy Mage is taken away.

* * *

Baz pretends not to notice, when Simon finally returns to their room. He doesn’t want to know how the stupid date went, doesn’t want to hear how Snow and Milo had made out at sunset, or whatever sappy romance bullshit couples did.

Behind him, Simon clears his throat. Baz ignores it. Simon repeats the motion, and once more, Baz ignores it. The third time, Simon makes an odd choking sound and dashes for the bathroom. Baz slams his pen down with a snarl. “What do you want?” He snaps.

Simon returns from the bathroom, curls in a spectacular state of disarray. There’s saliva on his cheek, and Baz finds himself imagining licking it off. ( _You’re disturbed_ ). His eyeliner today is curved with blue, and his jeans have a hand giving the finger embroidered on one knee.

“Sorry,” Snow wheezes. “I’m not very good at being subtle.”  
Baz snorts derisively. “You’re not fucking subtle at all, Snow.”

Simon’s eyes dull a little. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”  
“What, Snow? What else would I call you?”

Simon sighs, and collapses onto Baz’s bed. Baz notices that he has small red flowers, twined into his hair. Simon seems a little more tired than usual, a little thinner at the edges. Like thread wound too tightly. “It’s been a long week, Baz. Just…just don’t bite my head off, please?”

“Why can’t I call you Snow?” Baz knows he is being an arse, but he can’t have it any other way. This is how it will always end; he was stupid for thinking it could be anything more. He wants to hurt Simon the way the boy did to him, and he’ll take any pathetic argument.

Simon’s eyes shift downwards, and the room is quiet for several, long minutes. Baz raps his hand upon the desk impatiently. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Simon looks up several moments later. His eyes are cold, flinted blue. “Because in the care homes, that was all I was. _Snow_. I didn’t have a first name, and I wasn’t a person. I was just another number. Every time they called me _Snow_ , I was reminded of who I was – nothing. No family, not even a real name. Just Snow. Then I came here, and found I had a real name, but it didn’t matter, because the Salisbury’s were dead. So no, Baz, I don’t like it when you call me Snow. It’s a reminder of a loveless, god awful childhood that I do my best to forget.”

Baz sits for several seconds in shocked, horrid silence. Sn – Simon has never divulged the secrets of his childhood; Baz has never loathed himself more. “Simon – I’m so sorry. Fuck, I had no idea.”

Simon looks away, shifts backwards slightly on Baz’s bed. “Just come over here, will you? Milo and I – we’re not like that.”

* * *

_The party is loud and hazy with hormones and sweat. Simon is right in the thick of it, drunk and swaying to the beat. He has never felt so invigorated, so free. Rebelling against his father is deliciously exciting he finds, and Simon feels as though he is truly becoming himself. He isn’t ‘Davy’s Simon’ anymore, he’s just Simon. He’s just a boy._

_A hand appears suddenly, drifting across his arse. Simon turns, and finds himself face to face with a gorgeous, fucking fit guy. He can feel himself blushing, and he giggles as lips slide across his jaw; “Let’s get out of here, hmm?”_

_***_

_Milo, as he introduces himself, turns out to be a godsend. Davy hates him violently, which only serves to make Simon like him more. Milo is unabashedly himself – he knows who he is, and gradually, Simon begins to discover his own person. Milo spends hours teaching him the correct way to apply makeup; drags him into an op shop one afternoon and demands he “Find something that actually sat right.” He teaches Simon how to fight for what he wants, and one long rainy afternoon, delves further than any social worker had ever reached._

_“What were you thinking would happen, that night we first met?” Milo asks casually. He’s sprawled across his bed, and Simon is perched on the window seat, watching rain drip down the pane.  
Simon shrugs. “Don’t know, really.” Milo laughs, and Simon turns to him in confusion. _

_“Sweetheart,” Milo says, “have you ever thought that perhaps you’re not straight?”  
Simon jerks at the question, feels his cheeks begin to heat. “W-what?”_

_Milo slides upright, and slopes across to Simon. “Let me ask this a better way: how would you feel if I kissed you right now?”  
Simon’s face is scarlet. “But aren’t we – aren’t we just friends?” _

_Milo smiles warmly. “Of course we are. But I’ve heard you talk about your roommate countless times now, and it really sounds to me like it might be something more.”  
“I-I don’t understand.” _

_Milo settles himself down across from Simon, drawing the boy’s legs into his lap. “Our relationship is purely platonic, yes, but I’ve noticed you’re quite a physical thinker.” At Simon’s look of confusion, he elaborates. “I think the reality is usually quite easier for you to see, if it’s happening right before your eyes. Simon, you don’t hear the way you talk about Baz like I do. I want to show you what being with a boy is like.”_

_Simon’s mouth is uncomfortably dry. “O-okay.”  
_

_Milo smiles gently. “Don’t be nervous, sweetheart.” He tugs Simon’s legs around his waist, pulling the boy into his lap. Simon’s heart beat is thrumming in his ears, as Milo draws him in._

_The kiss is altogether different to being with a girl, though how, Simon cannot say. Milo is a fantastic kisser; he does this thing with his tongue that makes Simon feel as though his chest is made of fairy floss. When they break apart, Milo trails his lips down Simon’s neck, sucking a bruise into his collarbone. His hands slide under Simon’s shirt, fingertips ghosting across his abdomen. Simon shivers and lets out a moan._

_He draws Milo back upwards, dragging him into an open-mouthed kiss, slightly messier than the first. Simon had no idea how fucking **hot** it could be with a boy. When they break apart once more, the two are breathing heavily. _

_“Fuck, Simon,” Milo breathes. “You’re a really good kisser.”  
“Likewise,” Simon pants, and Milo chuckles. _

_They sit there, foreheads resting against one another. After a while, Simon breaks the silence. “Milo,” he says seriously. “I think I like Baz.”  
Milo starts to giggle, and once he’s begun, Simon can’t hold it in any longer. They’re both laughing, light on air, and the rain drips steadily down._

 

_How could he not notice it before? How could he have been so blind? Milo says he was afraid, and confused. Simon still can’t seem to find a label that fits, but Milo says that’s okay too. One didn’t necessarily need a label._

_But, fuck. Baz was beautiful. The way his hair looked so much better when it wasn’t gelled back; the way several strands always fell into his face when he was studying. Simon loved Baz’s long, golden-red fingers. They were delicate and slim, and Simon could remember more than one occasion where he’d lost all train of thought at the way Baz practiced his violin. He was so fit, too. Especially when he was playing football. Christ, Simon couldn’t wait to see Baz again. He felt reborn._

* * *

Baz returns to their room after a long day of wrangling with new professors, to find Simon curled up on his bed, staring out the window. They were friends again, though it was everything was slightly more awkward, at least for Baz. Did Simon realise Baz’s true feelings now? Surely, Baz had thought, after the way he’d reacted to Milo, the boy had to have realised. But Simon was as much the same as ever; indeed, it seemed to Baz that perhaps the whole incident could be left to rot in the dust.

“Hey Si,” he says, throwing his bag down on his bed. “What’re you looking at?”  
Simon shifts slowly, as though he is in a trance. When he turns to look at Baz, his eyes are wide and dazed. “The stars,” he replies softly.

Baz feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “The stars, huh? Don’t tell me you’re planning to become an astronaut.”  
Simon chuckles softly, patting the coverlet beside him. “Come sit.”  
Baz crawls onto the bed, and settles himself beside Simon. Their shoulders brush as he shifts to peer out the window.

The two are silent for a few moments, drinking in the dark soup-bowl sky, and the high, cold points of light. There is not a wisp of cloud to be seen, and Baz knows that tomorrow morning there will be the first proper frost of the season.

“What is it about Space that you love so much?” he murmurs.

Simon contemplates the question for a moment, peering wide-eyed at the sky. He turns towards Baz with a smile. “There’s so…so much possibility out there, Baz. So much to learn and be discovered, you know? There’s so much we don’t know, and the things we do know are so wild, so powerful, so untameable.”

As he speaks, Simon’s eyes drift towards the window once more. Baz watches the way starlight sparkles in Simon’s eyes, the way it hangs, glittering, in his curls. ( _How is it possible that it can reach so far?_ )  He’s so powerfully distracted by the galaxy that is Simon Snow, that he loses all sense of reality. They’re just two boys, swirling on a bed in the midst of soaring darkness and starlight.

Simon’s eyes shift to him in that moment, and Baz realises he’s been caught staring. He can feel his cheeks beginning to flush pale pink, but Simon just smiles. “I always thought, you know, that your eyes looked a little like stars, in the dark.”

“You did?” It is a typically whimsical and _Simon_ kind of statement, that really doesn’t make much sense. To Baz, it feels as though his heart is a hummingbird, laced beneath bones and blood.

Simon slides forward; so close that Baz can feel the warmth of his breath, ghosting across his face. There is a pause, in which the moonlight takes the chance to slip into the room. Simon is glowing now; this, Baz thinks, is why starlight can reach so far. Who wouldn’t want to touch the boy who has the galaxy in his chest pocket? Baz has never seen anyone so beautiful. “Simon,” he breathes, and that is all it takes for the boy to close the gap.

The kiss is Baz’s first, and for the first few seconds, his mind is wired, collapsing. Then Simon does something with his chin, and Baz forgets all thought. He leans forward into Simon, winding one arm around the boy’s waist, grazing the other hand across his jaw, feather-soft. Simon moans into the kiss, sliding a roughened hand into Baz’s hair and across his scalp.

Baz breaks the kiss when oxygen becomes too hard to find, trailing his lips down the line of those god-damned moles that have been taunting him for far too fucking long. Simon’s hand snakes between the buttons of Baz’s shirt, and Baz loses all control over his voice. He lets out a breathy groan, against Simon’s collarbone, and the boy above him grins. Simon’s legs come around his waist, and suddenly, Baz is on his back, blinking up at Simon. Simon’s eyes are dark with lust, and Baz thinks that this must be a dream, because surely Simon doesn’t feel this way? Then Simon shifts onto to his elbows, grinding his hips down against Baz, and suddenly that doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Bazzy,” Simon whimpers, burying his face in his neck.  
Fuck. The name shreds Baz’s last vestiges of control, and he lets out a hungry moan, thrusting upwards to meet the boy above him. “S-Simon,” he gasps, calling out, responding.

Simon catches at his bottom lip, tongue sliding into his mouth. Baz’s entire body feels as though it has been sparked with stars; the feeling is so fantastic, so powerful, he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to go on without it.

Their pace becomes frantic and messy – for a moment, the two are dangling on an ever-growing branch. Then suddenly, they are falling into bursts of colour and a sensation that makes Baz’s toes curl, his eyesight whitening momentarily.

When he comes to again, Simon is changing his pants; Baz rolls sideways off the bed, and removes his own swiftly, replacing them with his silk pyjamas. Simon slips under the covers, dressed now in his standard track pants ( _bloody shirtless, as always_ ), tugging Baz inwards.

The boy pulls the covers tight around them, and entangles his body with Baz’s. “That was, um – it was amazing, Baz.” He smiles softly, dipping his forehead into the crook of Baz’s neck. “I’ve liked you for so long.”

Baz’s heart leaps into his throat. “Really?” he whispers. “You have no idea how I feel about you.”  
Simon looks up, cheeks flushed. “Be my terrible boyfriend?”

Baz thwacks him on the arm. “Be _your_ terrible boyfriend? The only terrible one in this relationship will be you, Simon.”  
“Is that a yes, then?”  
“Is that a – Crowley Simon, _yes_.”

Simon giggles, and tugs Baz further into his embrace. His hand slides Baz’s shirt upwards, rubbing a slow, warm pattern into his stomach. Baz allows his eyes to drift shut, body thrumming with warmth. Who knew stomach rubs made him so weak?

Simon snickers. “You’re like a cat, Bazzy.” Ah. There it is again, that name. Baz concentrates on breathing. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, at least, until Simon draws closer and whispers, “ _Bazzy._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue is merely an indulgent add-on. The story could quite easily end here, but I'm too in love with this au. Exams are coming up, so the epilogue will unfortunately not appear until some time next month.


End file.
